by Nenny May
Upon arrival, she’d met a wall of reporters by the entrance. They’d had their back to her. They hadn’t caught her scent. She was glad. That didn’t mean the hairs at her nape didn’t stand on end. A single wandering eye can have their flock pecking at her, curious as to Terrence Gresham’s involvement in Lawrence Harrington’s murder. She couldn’t answer that question. Perhaps because she herself wanted to know just as much as they did. What role did he play in that murder?
She hadn’t gone for the front entrance, but with her head ducked, she’d gone along the side through the emergency door. While on the Brimmings case, she’d spent many weeks with Detective Mathews who’d shown her quite a bit about 28th Precinct, she’d never thought those little tips would come in handy.
Before turning the corner, she’d offered a straying glance at the wall of notable reporters. They’d been occupied with Detective Mathews, needing to why he’d stepped down from the case, consequently letting the son of the victim investigate the murder. Christina wasn’t the only one with that concern. Hoisting her weakened body up the concrete side steps and through the green side door, Christina walked along a narrow hallway and found the front desk and when she did, she’d leaned against it, catching her breath.
“How may I help you, ma’am?” The woman behind the desk asked.
“I would like...” Christina paused, forcing her lungs to gulp as much air as they could. She’d hardly been this short of breath before. “Excuse me,” She rose a finger as if telling the lady to hold that thought. Her lungs burned, but it only lasted for a couple of seconds. Her jaws clenched and she returned her attention to the woman behind the desk. “I would like to know where Terrence Gresham is held.” The woman eyed her unenthusiastically.
“Are you a reporter?”
“Lawyer.”
The woman didn’t seem convinced. Though reluctantly said; “He’s in interrogation.” Christina stared blankly at her. “Second-floor third door to your left.” Christina went on her way, but she didn’t miss the woman’s passive comment; “Try not to pass out from those stairs,” She’d let the words roll off her back. It wasn’t her fault. She’d read somewhere that fatigue was a symptom. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t deny it. Neither could she entertain thoughts about it. Not now.
Christina had however followed the woman’s instruction and tugged on the unlocked handle to the door. It swung open, and when it had, Terrence had been alone, seated with his head in his arms. Impulsively she’d assumed he’d fallen asleep. But when his head rose to the sound of her footsteps she knew he was wide awake.
The room they’d kept him was small, beige, empty aside from a table and two chairs, plain, but she hadn’t missed the camera that sat over the door, the red flash indicating its concentration on them.
“Did they arrest you?” She sat opposite him.
“Not yet.”
“Are they going to?” He had a thousand-yard stare pinned on the wall behind her head.
“Fingers crossed they wouldn’t have a reason to.” Terrence Gresham tore his gaze from the wall but didn’t quite meet Christina’s eyes. For how long had he been evading her eyes?
“Fingers crossed?” Had she just not noticed?
“Fingers crossed.” He repeated.
“Why didn’t you just leave then?” She asked instead, acknowledging the moisture gathering beneath her arms. Something felt off.
“I’ve got nothing to hide.” The twitch in his eyes told her differently.
“So you’re cooperating then?” He nodded. She slipped off her coat. “You’re aware you have a right to remain silent, right?” Everything felt off with, Terrence, with her.
“I’m not under arrest. I could be concealing information and obstructing justice if I were to exercise that right in this situation.” Especially with her; something felt off with her. It’s like she didn’t even have it in her to keep up with the details. Where was her edge? Had she lost it after the Brimmings case? No, she’d won the case of Manhattan v Jerald Parker right after the Brimmings case. She hadn’t lost her edge, but was she beginning to? She hoped not.
“Are you?” He broke eye-contact yet again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you concealing information?” She asked again.
“What took you so long? Here I thought my lawyer would pick my calls?” She wiped her clammy hands on her dress. He was skirting her question with another. She didn’t need to answer him. This wasn’t the time or place to talk about her disease, her shortcoming.
“What are you not telling me, Terrence? I know I haven’t been there. I’ve had a lot on my plate, but now is the time to fix that.” He rose an eyebrow, almost waiting for the punch-line.
“So you figured a police station in Harlem is the right place to bridge the gap between us?” His lips curled up at the tips. “Couldn’t even take me to somewhere nice, buy me a drink first then ask how I’ve been?” There it was again, that sense of humor that went over her head. “I thought I raised you better than that, Christina?”
“I’m not here as your daughter, Terrence, I’m here as your lawyer. And it’s my job to keep you from facing criminal liability, and for that, you need to be honest and open with me.”
“You know what, you’re right!” He chimed. “You’re absolutely right.” With great effort, he leaned forward, pushed the chair backward with a piercing screech as it skidded across the tiled floors. He then rose to his feet. “Why didn’t I just leave?” Terrence turned and walked out of the open metal door. Christina didn’t chase after him. The thought of trying to keep up made her physically worn out. No, she’d sat there, for many minutes gathering the thoughts that had spilled about the tiny investigation room. At this point, she could only clutch onto the sliver of hope that whatever role he’d had to play in Lawrence Harrington’s murder, it wasn’t an indictable one.
And then she’d gotten up and returned the way she’d come, to the front desk, this time biting the inside of her cheek as she addressed the woman from before.
“It’s me again,” Christina forced a smile, it didn’t meet her eyes. “I would like to know Detective Harrington’s office?”
“He’s not on seat, can I take a message?” Christina shook her head. Whatever she’d wanted to talk to the Detective about could wait. Besides, she didn’t feel particularly comfortable talking to the disrespectful woman.
“It’s okay, I’ll wait.” Christina didn’t wait for a response, she didn’t want to. She’d turned and walked across the room to the waiting area by the entrance, perched by the window, and pulled out her phone.
Notifications from various social media platforms popped up on her screen. Articles, videos, witness claims. She’d ignored them and run through her unread texts. Carter much like Grace had been checking in on her. He’d been concerned about her absence from work. Christina Gresham was a workaholic, simply put. She’d found a certain solace at her desk, she’d always been driven by the flame in her belly when they’d toss a case onto her desk and even though it riled her blood pressure she’d found herself entertained by the workplace drama. And Carter knew this, so his unease was anticipated.
You never came to work, everything okay? His message simply read.
She’d written back to him that she would turn in for a couple of minutes before returning home.
Take the day off. You deserve it! Wellington’s reply had come in faster than she’d anticipated. It was a well-intentioned message, but she would still turn in. The familiar setting and overwhelming workload would distract her. She needed that.
Boy, she needed that.
“Gresham, heard you were looking for me?” Detective Harrington strode over to the waiting area. She rose to her feet. “Mind telling me what this is about?”
“Terrence.” She simply said. “I want access to the information regarding his arrest in 2009.” Those cold concrete eyes stared at her, and for a flutter of a second, his tongue ran over his bottom lip.
“I never handled that case.
Why are you asking me?” He turned, making his way past the front desk and towards the elevator. Christina followed, almost unable to catch up with his stride.
“Because you will have access to it.” He’d stepped into the elevator, yet hesitated to click a floor till she’d joined him. She felt moist all over again, almost claustrophobic in the metal box with Harrington. She could only wonder why that was. Or perhaps she was self-conscious? “He’s your primary suspect. Anyone asks why you’re digging tell them something came up and you want to take a look at his records.”
“But nothing has happened and I don’t want to take a look at his records.” He clicked the button to the fourth floor. He’d remained planted still as the doors slid shut.
“Terrence isn’t being completely honest, Detective. I’m not saying he’s your guy, but I’m not saying he isn’t hiding something. He is. And we both want to know what that is. What better way to do that than to go through his records?”
“Some daughter, here I thought you’d come to bite my head-off for interrogating Terrence.”
“I stand with the law, Detective. I can only hope Terrence isn’t on the other side of it.” What would she do if he were? No, he wasn’t. He couldn’t be; though it was too premature to draw that conclusion.
“I wouldn’t hold your breath, Miss. Gresham.” The doors slid apart and once more he’d walked ahead of her, hands buried in his pants pockets. He’d lead her down a narrow hall and into a parted door on the right.
It wasn’t a small office. It wasn’t all that big either. Stepping further inside, the file cabinet by the single window behind his desk drew her attention. The stretched metal drawer wasn’t unique in any way. In any other situation, Christina Gresham wouldn’t have given it any more than a fleeting look, but she had, because of the hole that had been burned into one of the drawers; a bullet hole. He hadn’t noticed her staring at it; he’d almost seemed oblivious to it. Had he inherited the office from his predecessors like that? She chose to ignore it, even if once more that translucent bag teetered across her thoughts. She’d always had a fear of guns, bullets particularly. She’d never had a personal encounter with them, up until this case at least, but, what she felt—the difficulty she’d endured with each endeavor to rid her mind of that 9mm shell casing—seemed overwhelming. “What is that, the dent on your file cabinet?”
“That’s the reason why all firearms are to be properly checked before being dumped on a desk.” He’d barely even looked at it. No, he’d been taking off his blazer and weapon belt hung over his shoulder. He’d tossed both onto a hook on the wall.
“You have a faulty gun?”
“Not exactly, I had merely forgotten that the safety on the gun was off.” Her heart lurched. He wasn’t serious, was he?
“Isn’t that careless?” She hadn’t drawn her eyes from the darkened hole. It had long cooled, but there was still evidence of melted green metal around the presumably three-inch-hole. She wondered if there was another at the other end of the cabinet.
“Are we here to evaluate the level of care I put into my job, or discuss Terrence Gresham’s involvement in Lawrence’s murder?”
“What do you mean Terrence’s involvement?” She asked, willing her mind to focus on the conversation.
“Have a seat.” He offered, shutting the door behind her and pulling open the blinds over the window behind his desk. Dull yellowish-orange rays from the late afternoon sun fell slanting onto the stained wood desk. It hadn’t been customized with pictures or knickknacks. It was bare, yet nevertheless held a desktop computer, a plaque with his title on it, and a pile of unsorted files.
Christina took him up on his offer and sat stiffly and straight, once more triumphed by that suffocating sense of self-awareness, and fear? No, she didn’t have anything to fear with Detective Harrington, and yet she’d replayed the concocted image of a tired Barron duping a loaded firearm onto his desk and stepping back startled as the firearm went off assaulting the metal cabinet by the window. What if it had been turned in a different direction? Would he have an amputated limb? A limp? Would he have suffered organ failure and passed along due to his negligence? The possibilities sent a chill running through her spine.
She eased up, ever so slightly, and rather relished in the opportunity to be off her feet. He sat behind his desk, leaned against it, elbows pressed over the surface and hands steepled. “I mean, two witnesses are placing Terrence at the venue on the day of the murder.”
“Of course he was at the venue he owns and operates the investment company.”
Harrington’s nostrils flared. “He’s a part-owner. Lawrence had just as much ownership over Gresham Square as Terrence did.” The Detective clarified. “Though not to get side-tracked, both of these witnesses can attest to Terrence tampering with Gresham Squares’ security equipment on the day of the murder.” No, he didn’t. Christina wanted to say, but she bit her tongue and rather offered instead of a blaring voice, a listening ear. This wasn’t the time to raise her voice; this was the time to collect the facts; to sift them from the clutter.
“How exactly did he tamper with these pieces of equipment?” Christina asked the Detective who’d had his eyes fastened onto his computer screen, fingers thumping scattered and out of pace on his keyboard.
“He’d had the cameras as well as the weapon detectors taken down.” Her shoulders slumped forward, and the familiar warmth of disappointment swirled about in her chest. She should have gone after Terrence. If she’d known just how deep a hole he’d dug himself into, she wouldn’t have let him leave her in that plain interrogation room. “I’ve had the CSI team bring these items into evidence. I’m hoping our criminalist can get back to me before the end of the day with something.” She’d let her eyes wander over to the crime board Harrington had been putting together. It didn’t surprise her he’d had only a picture of Terrence on the wall as a suspect. He was the primary man they had their eyes on. A larger picture had been pinned to the right of the board, it was of the victim; Lawrence. She was no better than the wall of reporters outside. She much like the rest, wanted an answer to the million-dollar-question. What role did Terrence play in the murder of Lawrence Harrington?
“You think he murdered Lawrence.” Her voice was a squeak, she barely recognized it.
“I won’t lie to you; I don’t know what to think. I’m waiting to hear back from the medical examiner regarding the official cause of death.” Barron said instead. He’d drawn open a desk drawer and pulled out a file slapping it onto his desk.
“It wasn’t a GSW?” She rubbed the crook of her neck.
“Seems like it but we’re just following protocol, Gresham.” He’d pulled out his phone and begun dialing a number from the document on his desk.
“You talk about Lawrence as if he were a mere case file. Did he mean that little to you?” Her question went unanswered. She figured, deliberating it, she was out of line with such a personal inquiry. He’d held up a finger, pointed it to the phone in his ear, and said;
“Clark the clerk, it’s Harrington. Can you get me into our case-files? I need access to an old one.” There was a pause before Harrington continued. “Manhattan v Terrence Gresham; it’s a 2009 case.” A ghost of a smile found its way to Christina’s lips and they curled upwards. “I’m working point in Lawrence’s murder and I have reason to believe Gresham might be our guy.” Christina was grateful for the small win; because even if Terrence wasn’t going to talk to her, she would poke her nose into his past. She would know what she’d been too young and too ignorant to understand about her father. “I owe you one, Buddy.” Harrington shoved his phone into his pockets and returned his attention to his computer. The scattered typing continued. Just for a bit, before he’d said; “You want to take a look at this now or would you like me to email it?” He held her in place with eyes of a raging storm.
“You can just email it to me.” She rummaged through her pockets for her contact card and placed it on his desk. “I have to show my face a
t Wellington & Turner anyway.” She rose to her feet. “But thank you, Detective.” She’d said with a nod and turned on her heels.
“He’s more than just a case file.” He’d called after her. She’d nodded and continued on her way. She was glad for the small win, why then couldn’t she shake the suffocating feeling that what she would find in that email would cast Terrence in a different light?
Chapter Four
Christina glimpsed up from her paperwork, hickory eyes resting on the man leaned against her door frame, pink lips hung crooked on her face. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to come to work this week?" Carter asked.